


Resistance

by little0bird



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: First Order, Galactic Empire, Gen, Joining the Resistance, Lira San, M/M, New Republic, Parents letting go, Pre-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Resistance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27039973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little0bird/pseuds/little0bird
Summary: Channele decides to join the Resistance, much to the displeasure of one of her fathers.
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios
Comments: 5
Kudos: 56





	Resistance

Channele scooped a serving of the roasted vegetables onto her plate, before passing it to Avramet, her younger brother. She fiddled with a fork, shoving a chunk of Charbote root around while her fathers inquired after Avrament’s day in school. Mikken, her older brother, gently teased Avramet about his straggly attempt to grow facial hair. ‘And you, Channele? How goes it with the Honor Guard?’ Alexsandr inquired, the staccato sounds of Basic jarring her from her reverie.

‘I resigned,’ she blurted.

‘Ya did what?’ Zeb muttered, ears winging backward with obvious displeasure.

‘Why would ya do somethin’ so stupid?’ Mikken asked, his fork held aloft.

Channele set her fork down. Everything in the room was too bright and too loud. Her pulse thudded in her ears. ‘I resigned from the Honor Guard this afternoon. ‘ She glanced from Alexsandr to Zeb. ‘I’m joining the Resistance.’

Alexsandr abruptly stood and grabbed his cane, then turned and limped from the house. Nothing betrayed the fury he felt at Channele’s announcement, beyond a noticeable thinning of his lips.

‘Karabast.’ Zeb set his cup down and rose. ‘I’ll go…’

‘No, Ba… I’ll go.’ Channele snatched Alexsandr’s jacket from the peg next to the door. The breeze coming off the lake was always cool this time of year, especially at sundown.

Zeb watched her walk toward the lake. Despite the fact Alexsandr and Channele were different species, she was so much like him in temperament. Remarkably even-tempered until someone or something threatened a family member, then all bets were off. She hadn’t had the easiest childhood. She was smaller than most Lasat, and even now as an adult only stood two meters tall, just barely taller than Alexsandr. Her fur remained the golden-brown color she’d had at birth and her eyes were the blue-green of the waters on Sorgan, rather than the bright yellowish green typically seen in Lasat. Alexsandr had reassured her countless times the differences in her physical characteristics didn’t make her any less of a Lasat than Zeb. He was the only one who could.

He turned and motioned for the boys to carry on with their meals. He wasn’t nearly as shaken by Channele’s announcement as Alexsandr. Not after she drank in every single word they’d ever said about fighting for the Rebellion back in their day. The stories they told about Yavin IV, the Death Star, Endor. How the Spectres freed Lothal from the Empire. The sense of honor they had instilled in the children. Little wonder she felt compelled to heed the call to fight with the Resistance.

It was in her blood, after all.

Channele crept through the fallen leaves. Alexsandr sat on the bench Zeb had carved from a fallen log, its high back and sides perfect for young kits to climb, and large enough to comfortably hold her entire family. He stared out over the lake, hands folded over the handle of his cane, the autumn breeze tugging at the silvery-gold strands of hair that had come loose from the thong that bound it away from his face. She adored both of her fathers, but Channele’s earliest memories were of Alexsandr crooning Lasat lullabies to her before tucking her into bed. It was his fingers she clutched in her pudgy hands when she learned to walk. He was always the first with a sympathetic grimace and bacta strips for her skinned elbows and knees. No question was ever too silly, although he would indulge her sillier questions with equally silly answers. He was the one who spent hours poring over holodvids in order to create the elaborate braids in her hair when she went to school. He made a tiny toy bo-rifle for her and taught her how to fight with it. She was who she was because of Alexsandr.

‘Papa?’ She climbed over the back of the bench’s sinuous curving back, and slid to sit next to Alexsandr.

He turned his gaze toward her. Channele shivered slightly. The stillness of his eyes reminded her of a predator bird she’d seen in an aviary on Lothal. Except his were brimming with unspeakable sadness. ‘Channele, please don’t go.’

‘I have to.’

‘You don’t know what the First Order will do to you,’ he said, his voice low and urgent. His hands tightened on the knob of his cane, knuckles turning white. ‘To them you are worse than nothing.’

‘Then I’ll work extra hard to not get captured,’ she replied flippantly.

Alexsandr’s hand shot out and closed around her wrist. ‘The First Order is the Empire, but far more fanatical. The people who founded the First Order were steeped in the beliefs of the Empire. They barely remembered the Old Republic. They only knew the Empire and how it purportedly brought peace to the galaxy. What the Empire believed still holds true. They will want to make an example of you.’ His jaw worked for several moments. ‘Not only is your father a survivor of a species they tried to eradicate under the Empire, but I…’ He gulped. ‘I am a traitor. They see the life I have built here as an abomination.’

Channele shook her head. Alexsandr never spoke about his past before joining the Rebel Alliance, other than to say his parents were likely dead. For all she knew, he emerged fully formed from a cave on Yavin IV the day he joined the Rebellion. ‘I don’t understand.’

One brow rose slowly into his hairline. ‘You never bothered to look me up on the HoloNet?’

‘No.’

Alexsandr briefly closed his eyes, and prayed to Ashla for guidance. ‘I was an agent in the Imperial Security Bureau, operating number ISB-021.’ Channele’s ears swivelled forward. The lower the number, the higher the rank. ‘I was an Imp for nearly twenty years, and defected to the Rebels about two years before the Spectres helped to liberate Lothal. When I defected, I stayed in the Empire for a year, working as a Fulcrum agent, then when the Phoenix Squadron had to evacuate their base on Atollon, I managed to flee my Star Destroyer in an escape pod. Hera was able to grab my pod just before she jumped to lightspeed.’ He sighed. ‘There are probably people in the First Order who would use you to punish me. I betrayed their ideals twice. Once when I defected, and again when your Ba and I entered into a relationship.’

Channele turned her wrist and clasped her father’s hand. ‘Then how can you ask me to stand by and watch everything you and Ba fought for be destroyed?’

‘I promised your mother that Garazeb and I would keep you safe.’ Alexsandr thumped the ground with his cane for emphasis.

‘And you did.’ She lifted a hand and scratched the back of her neck, rather like Zeb in times of distress. ‘Papa, I’m an adult. You fulfilled whatever vow you made to my mother. You and Ba have given me everything I need. I can’t promise I’ll live to see the end of the fight. No one can. But you can rest assured that if I do die, then it will have been for a good cause.’

‘We fought so you wouldn’t have to,’ he retorted. A sudden gust of wind blew over them leaving pebbled flesh in its wake. The sun slipped behind the mountains, casting deep purple shadows over the lake that matched the cold fear in Alexsandr’s heart. ‘I forbid you to go.’

Channele leapt to her feet. ‘You… you can’t do that!’ she spluttered. ‘You and Ba fought for the Republic, why shouldn’t I do the same?’

Alexsandr tipped his head back so he could look his daughter in the eye. ‘That was different. We were soldiers.’

‘I am a soldier!’

’This is different,’ Alexsandr shouted, propelling himself to his feet. ‘You’re my child!’ He took several deep breaths until the urge to throttle something passed. ‘There is no need for you to put yourself at risk. The First Order will never find us here.’

Channele kicked at a pile of leaves. ‘You say that like the First Order hasn’t plundered the Republic’s information systems. Lira San won’t be safe from them for long.’ She pivoted on her toes before she said something she regretted. Her hands clenched into fists. ‘I am an adult, and I no longer need your permission.’ She bit her lip, then added almost too low for Alexsandr to hear. ‘Or your approval.’

Alexsandr’s shoulders slumped. His eyes stung, but he blinked back the tears that pooled in the corners of his eyes. ‘There is nothing I can say to persuade you otherwise?’

Channele’s chin trembled. ‘No. My mind is made up.’ Her voice cracked.

‘Then we have nothing more to say to one another on the topic.’ Alexsandr let out a shuddering breath, feeling his heart break into a thousand pieces.

‘Papa…’

‘Go back inside, Channele,’ he snapped. Channele recoiled as if stung. Not once in her life had her father ever spoken to her in that tone.

‘Fine,’ she muttered, stomping up the path that led back to the house. She punched the panel to open the door and walked into the wall of Zeb’s chest. ‘Ba.’

‘Finish your dinner, Channie.’ He steered her toward the table. Mikken and Avramet had gone to their rooms. She could hear the faint sound of a holodrama coming from Mikken’s room. He’d likely kept the volume low so he could eavesdrop. Zeb slid her uneaten dinner in front of her. ‘Might as well fight with your father on an full stomach.’

She flopped into her chair with a huff and poked at her rewarmed food. ‘He’s kriffing unreasonable.’

Zeb kept his opinions to himself, as he dropped into the chair opposite Channele, a mug of caf cradled between his hands. ‘I imagine ya must have a contact in the Resistance.’

‘Maybe.’ She rolled a shrivelled Antarian pea under the tines of her fork.

‘Don’t be cheeky, Channie.’ Zeb pointed at her with a admonishing finger. ‘Ya may be grown, but yer not too grown to sass me.’

‘Jacen,’ Channele admitted. ‘Aunt Hera, really. But Jacen will come and pick me up in a few days.’

‘Why am I not surprised?’ Zeb dragged a hand down his face. ‘Ya sure ya wanna do this? It’s a hard life, kid. Always on the run, tryin’ to stay one step ahead of the Empire. Prayin’ you’ll get lucky… Watchin’ yer friends die right in front of ya.’

‘I can’t stay here and do nothing while other people fight for us.’ Channele shoved a bite of Charbote root into her mouth. ‘Not after everything you and Papa taught me.’

‘Yeah… we were sorta hopin’ you’d never have to do this. Life’s funny that way, eh?’ He sipped his caf, studying Channele over the rim of the mug. ‘How long you been plannin’ this?’

‘A while.’ She poked at a slice of daro root.

Zeb’s brows lowered. ‘Define a while.’

‘Couple of months. Aunt Hera won’t let Jacen take _Ghost_ —‘

‘’Course she wouldn’t. Barely let anyone else ever fly her.’

‘And he needed to scrounge up something of his own.’

‘Right.’ Zeb planted his elbows on the table, eyeing Channele. ‘Ya got everything ya need?’

Channele grinned. ‘Almost. Just need a good blaster or two. I’ll search a few of the markets tomorrow.’

Zeb finished his caf and gestured toward the lake. ‘He still out there?’

‘Yeah.’ Channele picked up her plate and reached for Zeb’s mug. ‘He’s really angry,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve never seen him so angry. Not with me.’ Channele set her plate across the counter next to the sink.

Zeb pushed himself to his feet. ‘Yeah, well… The Empire damaged him. A lot more than it ever did to me. We thought we managed to blast it out of existence. Guess we were wrong.’ He bent his head and rubbed his cheeks over the top of her head. ‘He’ll come round.’

* * *

The bed never felt too big. There were times when it felt too small, too crowded. When the children piled in with them during one of the turbulent storms that howled over their sector. During a summer heat wave when one hundred kilos of miserably hot Lasat sprawled over the expanse of the bed, trying to catch even the whisper of a cool draft. But never had the space between Alexsandr and Zeb felt like an inaccessible gulf.

Alexsandr lay on his back, hands folded over his stomach. He stared at the ceiling with such intensity, that Zeb fancied he might bore a hole in it by will alone. Zeb recognized the set of Alexsandr’s mouth and the line between his brows. Fear masquerading as anger. It was an expression Zeb hadn’t seen since before Endor.

Zeb rolled over and laid one hand over Alexsandr’s tightly clenched fist. ‘She wants your approval.’

Alexsandr huffed and flopped to his side, and hitched the blanket higher over his bare shoulder. ’She is an adult, Garazeb, and, as I was so plainly reminded, no longer needs our approval, nor our permission.’

‘Yer blessing, then…’ Zeb inched forward and began to stroke the pads of his fingers over Alexsandr’s exposed back.

‘I can’t,’ Alexsandr whispered.

‘Would ya object if it was Mikken or Avie?’

Alexander sat up, dislodging Zeb’s hand. ‘Of course I would!’ He snatched up his pillow and clutched it to his chest. ‘What sort of insane question is that? ’ he muttered.

‘Channie’s always been yer favorite,’ Zeb said.

‘I have no favorites,’ Alexsandr said stiffly. He gave Zeb a withering glare. ‘Although, you are not my favorite Lasat right now.’

Zeb’s eyes narrowed. ‘She’s only doing what we did.’

Alexsandr glared down his nose at his mate. ‘The difference, Garazeb, is that Channele has a family, and we did not.’ His face reddened as he caught a glimpse of the small painting Sabine had done of the crew of the _Ghost_ just after Endor. ‘Pardon me. I did not. There was no one in the galaxy who would have cared if I died on some Outer Rim backwater. It didn’t matter if I sacrificed my life.’

Zeb snorted. ‘Right. I wouldn’t’ve shed a single tear if you’d died in an Imperial attack,’ he said with heavy sarcasm. ‘Yer being selfish, Alex. Ya have to let go.’ Zeb let his hand rest on Alexsandr’s, but he jerked it away.

‘I know.’ Alexsandr pulled his knees into his chest. Or as well as he could, considering the one didn’t bend as well as it used to. He heard Zeb heave a sigh full of heartache and umbrage. The bedding rustled as Zeb burrowed into it, facing away from Alexsandr. His forehead dropped to his knees. He doubted he would sleep much, if at all.

Zeb and Channele were right. He _was_ behaving like a selfish ass. It had been difficult to think of Channele as an adult who no longer needed — or necessarily wanted — her fathers to help guide her choices. It was a jarring sensation to realize Channele had outgrown them. He had convinced myself that he was prepared for that inevitability, but clearly was not. He inhaled deeply and his eyes drifted shut. _Let go_. How often had he heard Kanan repeat that mantra to Ezra? _Let go of the past_. Let go of the image of his daughter as a helpless newborn kit, and see her as she was. A fierce warrior with an equally fierce desire to see the galaxy freed from fear and hatred.

How could he argue with that?

* * *

Zeb’s even breathing never irritated Alexsandr more than this moment. How could he possibly sleep at a time like this? But Zeb could — and did — sleep in the first convenient space he could find during the war. This was just another war, albeit much smaller in every way. Alexandr sighed and pushed the blankets back and quietly dressed in the cold gloaming of dawn. He picked up his cane from where it leaned against the wall near the bed, and then made his way down a flight of spiralling stairs to his workshop.

He turned on a single light that shed a bright pool over his workbench, wincing away from the sudden light. Several shelves lined the walls, filled with neatly labelled bins. Each bin held a bo-rifle in various stages of repair or modification. Kallus stooped and pulled a bin from the bottom shelf. The pieces of Channele’s new bo-rifle lay inside. Zeb was meant to present it to her when she formally received a promotion next month. He’d spent months acquiring the pieces, collecting the best aspects of his lost J-19 and Zeb’s AB-75 that still hung in their bedroom. It would suit Channele’s smaller frame, but still pack a punch. And of course, he would modify for close combat. His speciality. He slid a pair of goggles over his eyes and settled on the tall stood. It was tedious, delicate work, not dissimilar to data analysis, but much more satisfying.

If he was going to send Channele off to fight, then she would carry a bit of them with her.

He was so absorbed in his work that he missed the sounds and smells of breakfast drifting down the stairs and the sudden quiet that descended over the house when Channele, Mikken, and Avramet left for the day. He did not, however, miss the mug of caf that appeared at his elbow. Alexsandr set his tool down and twisted from side to side, trying to work the kinks out of his back. ‘How long ya been down here?’ Zeb asked, as if he didn’t know the second Alexsandr slipped out of bed.

Alexsandr pulled off his goggles and squinted at the narrow horizontal window slits. ‘A while, I suppose.’ He sighed as Zeb’s warm hand closed on the back of his neck, massaging the knot in his muscles where his neck met his shoulder.

‘Looks good,’ Zeb grunted, gestring at the bo-rifle with his free hand. ‘Kept the lines of the AB-75.’

‘Handles better that way.’ Alexsandr picked up the mug and inhaled the fragrant steam, studying the nearly finished bo-rifle.

‘Think you’ll finish it in the next day or so?’

Alexsandr swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. ‘That soon?’ he murmured into his caf.

‘She’ll be with Jacen.’ Zeb told him.

‘That’s supposed to make me feel better about this?’

‘He’s his father’s son. Inherited more than his eyes. Got his knack for getting outta scrapes.’ Zeb pressed a gentle kiss to the back of Alexsandr’s neck. ‘Just so ya know, Alex, I’m not crazy about it myself. But… She wouldn’t be ours if she didn’t feel the urge to face the First Order with nothing more than blazing hope.’ Zeb wound both arms around Alexsandr’s waist. ‘Maybe there’s enough hope left in the galaxy, and she’ll come back to us.’

* * *

Jacen stood at the end of the ramp into his sleek VCX-Corellian freighter that greatly resembled _Ghost_ , bouncing on the balls of his feet with thinly disguised impatience. Hera laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered something into his ear, one of her lekku twitching. Zeb’s arms wrapped around Channele in a bone-crushing embrace. He murmured something in her ear too soft for Alexsandr to hear. Zeb released her, and Channele turned to Alexsandr. The past few days had seen an uneasy peace spring between them. They didn’t speak of her leaving, but it hung between them, coloring the words they chose and the tone of their voices. Alexsandr managed to smile at her, the sorrow of her farewell tugging at the corners of his mouth. His vision blurred and he saw the undersized kit she’d been, struggling to climb to the top of his workbench, full of unrestrained glee when she pulled herself over the edge to perch in a corner while he worked. He cleared his throat and wordlessly thrust a parcel at her, wrapped in heavy burgundy silk.

Channele picked apart the knots and let the silk fall away from the bo-rifle. She ran a reverent finger over the leather wrappings of the handgrips. ‘It’s perfect,’ she said, testing one of the grips.

‘Some of my best work,’ Alexsandr murmured, brushing a fingertip over the panel where he’d etched “Channele Kallus-Orrelios” in Aurebesh and Lasat. Zeb plucked the bo-rifle from Channele, and Alexsandr reached for one of her hands, then drew her into a fierce embrace of his own. The words stuck in his throat. One hand reached up to cup the back of her head. He quickly kissed her cheek, then rubbed his cheeks over the top of her head for what could possibly be the last time. _Let go_ , he reminded himself, and stepped back.

Zeb helped her attach the bo-rifle to her armor. Channele strode to the appropriately named _Kanan_ and punched Jacen in the shoulder. She headed up the ramp, and Alexsandr cried out in a strangled voice, ‘Channie!’ She paused.

Alexsandr brought his hands up to his chest, folded one into a fist, then covered it with his other hand. His head bent slowly. Next to him, Zeb repeated the gesture.

Channele’s chin trembled briefly as she returned the salute. To anyone else, it would have merely been soldiers bidding another soldier farewell. It was much, much more than that. It was their blessing.


End file.
